


New Clothes

by emungere, louise_lux



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The events of this story are entirely fictional.</p>
    </blockquote>





	New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this story are entirely fictional.

Roger had a gold medal feeling about the Olympics, right from the first practice on center court. He hung onto it hard, a thin gold thread clutched tight in his fingers through serve after serve. He needed that right now. Practice was kind of shit, if he was honest, but that didn't mean anything.

In the locker room, he was confronted by an explosion of Rafa's gear. It flowed out of his bag and down both sides of the bench. There were three shoes on the ground, a towel halfway to joining them, and Rafa's new Nike shirt wadded up to perch atop the mess.

Roger hadn't gotten a good look at the shirt yet, so he shook it out and held it up. Apparently Rafa had been practicing in it. It was damp, and a darker red in patches from sweat; back, chest, and stomach. It was a nice design, though. Roger angled it toward the light.

The strip down the back looked almost like a tattoo, something vaguely Chinese or maybe just tribal. It fit Rafa's image. It would not fit Roger's, which was a pity, because it was _really cool_.

Roger traced the lines with one finger and then glanced at the door. No one was around. He'd hear it when Rafa's shower turned off. It would only take a second. He stripped his shirt off and pulled on Rafa's, searching for a mirror. He found one, and stared.

It always amazed him how much difference clothes could make. He never really _did_ sleeveless as a look, not even off the court. He would if he had arms like Rafa's, but he had weird arms instead. He wasn't complaining; they worked, but they were nothing to show off. Except, somehow, they looked better in this.

He even liked the red, and the fabric was good. It clung to his skin, palpably wet at the curve of his back and across his chest. He shifted to feel it slide against him, faintly cool, but warming. He touched it, hand smoothing down from neckline to hemline.

"Looks good," Rafa said, behind him.

Roger jumped and then tried to pretend he hadn't. "Ah. Sorry. I just-- I was curious, that's all. Sorry. Again."

Rafa was dripping wet and stark naked. Roger swallowed. He could still hear the shower running. Rafa's shower bag dangled from one hand. He must've forgotten it.

One corner of Rafa's mouth turned up. "I have clean one. You can just ask."

"Too late now."

"Too late, yes."

Roger started to pull it off, but Rafa stepped up close behind him and patted his hands away. Roger looked at him in the mirror. Rafa's eyes moved over his chest. Rafa touched the curve of Roger's shoulder with one finger and an intent expression.

"You look different in it."

"Not my style."

"Not the style you--" Rafa scrunched his face up. "You know. Make for yourself? The one you show people."

Roger smiled at their reflections. Rafa was smarter than a lot of people thought he was. Roger liked knowing that about him.

"My image. Yes. But also not my style. Shows my skinny arms." Roger flexed for him, pulling a Schwarzenegger face.

Rafa breathed out a laugh that Roger felt on the back of his neck. "You make up for it here," Rafa said, putting both hands on Roger's shoulders.

His hands were very warm. The touch drove home to Roger how close he was standing, the molding of Rafa's shirt to his body like another touch, and Rafa's nakedness. Those three things together flipped some switch in Roger's head, and the situation suddenly had an overlay of sex, which was ridiculous.

Roger shifted his weight and stuck his hands in his pockets. He glanced up and accidentally met Rafa's gaze in the mirror.

"I always like your shoulders. Always like you. Your look."

The words hung there. Rafa curled his fingertips into Roger's muscles, squeezing for longer than something just friendly. His eyes were dark and intense, almost worried-looking, and the idea of sex didn't seem so ridiculous at all. It was right there with them, in the room. Roger could feel it in the heat of Rafa's breath and the brush of firm skin behind him; Rafa's groin or hip, or--

Roger's mouth lost all moisture. He shied away from Rafa's gaze. "Rafa-- I-- should take this off." _And leave._

"Yeah," Rafa said. Somewhere behind them, the shower was still running. Rafa was still wet, still standing there behind him dripping. Rafa took his hands from Roger's shoulders and put them on his waist. "Good here too," Rafa said, and now his voice had become husky, with an odd persuasive note. "Roger."

Roger turned, half because he couldn't take it anymore. There he was, eyes and mouth on a level with Roger's own. His face held that childlike softness it always had when he was concentrating, and it should've sat at odds with the gleaming curves of muscle on his chest and arms, but it didn't. His lips were parted, and he was looking at Roger's mouth.

Rafa's hands were still on him. They pressed the still-damp cloth to Roger's skin. Trails of water dripped from Rafa's hair onto his shoulders and then slid down over his chest. His cock, looking pale and thick, was starkly obvious against the dark patch of hair. Roger wondered if this was normal for Rafa, to be naked and wet and touching his team mates. No, it couldn't be. There'd be far more stories and gossip about them if so.

He gasped then, because Rafa pushed his hands up under the hem of the shirt. The heat of his fingers on made Roger jump. They stared at one another.

"You like my look?" Roger said. It didn't even begin to cover what he wanted to know, but he couldn't think of enough other words.

"Uh hm. A lot." Carefully enunciated.

"Rafa--"

"Take it off, Roger." He said it like he said a lot of things; like this was the way things were going to be, with no doubt or hesitation.

Roger drew it over his head and then handed it to Rafa, not knowing what to do with it. Rafa dropped it on the floor without even seeming to register its existence.

"Yeah, good," Rafa murmured, and moved closer. He was staring at Roger's chest with narrowed eyes. He raised his left hand and ran his fingers down the centre.

Roger took half a step away and started when his back hit the cold mirror. Condensation from the shower made it slippery against his skin. Rafa moved in, equally slippery from the shower and much, much hotter. Roger's stomach muscles twtiched under his hand.

Rafa put both hands on Roger's waist and walked backward. Roger went with him. His pulse was too fast, and the air around him smelled like Rafa, and he couldn't think. Rafa sat on a bench and pulled Roger to stand between his legs.

"Floor too hard for my knees," he said, and tugged Roger's shorts and underwear down, both at once.

Roger nearly swallowed his own tongue. "Rafa--"

Rafa looked up at him, head tilted, wet hair clinging to his face. He smiled a sly smile. "Yes, Roger? What you want now?"

Roger shut his mouth and shook his head slowly. His cock, stiffening just from the proximity to Rafa's mouth, was clearly capable of speaking for itself.

Rafa mouthed at the base and licked along it. That was a lot of tongue he seemed to have, more than Roger would've thought could fit in his mouth. It curled around the head, and Rafa sucked and slurped, and somehow Roger's hands gravitated to Rafa's hair and clung on, wringing water out of it to slide over his knuckles and down Rafa's cheeks.

The noise seemed immense, even over the shower. It echoed around the empty room, split now and then by the cool plink of water, groan of pipes or cooling metal. Roger looked down at Rafa's dark head and the arch of his naked back. He bent and slid a hand down Rafa's spine. Rafa made a choked noise and then moaned, taking his cock in further still.

Roger spread his legs and tipped his hips forward. A second later he felt a touch behind his balls, rubbing up and back. He wondered if Rafa meant to fuck him after this, imagined himself bent over this bench, hands closed on smooth wood, Rafa's cock shoving into him. He bit his lip and came just as Rafa pulled back to lick him.

White smeared at the corner of Rafa's mouth, on his chin, down his neck. Roger stared down at him and panted.

Rafa wiped a thumb up his own neck and licked it clean. He shot a quick grin up at Roger. "I should shower more now, no?"

He rose smoothly, grabbed his shower bag, and walked away.

Roger watched him go, and then watched the space where he'd been, and then remembered to pull his shorts up before someone came in and saw him gaping with his dick hanging out.

They needed to do that again. Soon. Maybe the other way around as well.

Other things poured into his head right after that; guilt, wariness, concern over his sudden attack of stupidity, lots of things. None of them was as clear or definite as that first thought. Sometimes, he knew he'd win a tournament right from the first match. It felt a lot like this.


End file.
